


another autumn

by orphan_account



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Autumn, M/M, No Dialogue, Poetic, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2020-11-26 03:47:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20923661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: they spend another autumn togetherPoetic rambling by me.





	another autumn

The autumn breeze whispers itself through the month, creeping through sweaters and entwining inself around oneself. England doesn’t mind. He’s used to the routine of cold; welcome it like a longtime friend.

They always talk, and it’s like things have always been. The air always rings of playful insults, a glimmer of laughter, two sparkling eyes. The two of them always throw words around carelessly as they dance the borders of being enemies, or friends.

But in this moment they don’t need to talk. 

Right now it’s just two figures, sitting next to each other, and the silence of the air is a comfort for neither of them want to break the fragile tension of a wilted leaf falling from above. The two of them have seen centuries of falling leaves, the memories melting into each other. He watches that leaf, thinking of twirling its stem between his fingers. He thinks of crumbling it into dust.

All it takes is one small noise, a short contact of skin, and everything might fall into small tatters and land on the ground. 

In this moment, England thinks that perhaps he’s grown bored of the juxtaposition. It is almost as though the still outside taunts the racing of his thoughts, his heartbeat. Adrenaline jumps inside him, numbing the thoughts of what a bad decision this is. 

France can’t say that England’s warmth surprises him. He hadn’t even noticed how cold it was before. It feels natural, feeling the pressure of the other’s body against him. Absentmindedly, he combs his hands through messy but soft locks of blond hair, wondering if they were capable of flattening. 

In that moment, they’re timeless. The captures of another autumn fly away and it’s like they’re kids again, yet it’s also as if they’re recovering from battle again, and also like so many hazy nights that might have just been dreams. 

It’s everything old, and everything new. It’s something that has always been there, but never has it been realized. 

Maybe, just maybe, it’s not a mistake for once.

England buries his head in France’s chest and he wants to stay there forever. He can hear a heart thumping, and he’s unsure of who it belongs to anymore. But it doesn’t feel quite right to be hidden away. 

He lets the armor of aggression fade from his eyes then blinks them a few times, because he can’t remember the last time he saw the world this way. Possibly because he’s also crying, like the fool he is. An emotional old man, falling in love like a schoolgirl. 

And Francis almost gasps because those eyes are like glass, bright and fragile and beautiful.

No words are needed. He lets a tear trickle down the Brit’s face, lets it land on his finger, makes it a promise. 

England knows. He knows this is right. Finally. Fucking finally, this is how it’s supposed to be. No talking, not right now. They make the same promise. 

_“My words won’t hurt you anymore.”___


End file.
